


Two Steps

by thedevilchicken



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: (a small amount of) Boot Worship, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, M/M, Object Insertion, Prostitution, Realization, Self-Sacrifice, Weapons Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-08 02:56:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16421054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Javert stumbles across Valjean in a brothel one evening. An investigation ensues.





	Two Steps

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



Javert has told himself more than once that what this is is an investigation. Yet here he is again, and his investigation progresses not at all.

Madame Dutoit owns a house; it is, ostensibly, Javert’s duty to ensure the repute of that house is merely ill and not illegal. Madame Dutoit offered him a rather handsome bribe the night he first attended, should he blind his eye to what transpired within; this was an affront to his morals that he felt keenly, and he felt bound by his oaths to place the Madame under arrest. This was a duty which he would have carried out with all his heart except that then, just at the moment that his duty called, he saw a face he thought familiar and so made a different choice.

He refused the bribe, but told Madame Dutoit he would return. The face that had appeared at the top of the stair was that of Jean Valjean, he was almost sure. He required time to prepare.

He returned the following evening, after dark, and found himself welcomed to the house by its well-dressed and wary proprietress. She took him to her office, through the vestibule lined by its vast parade of girls whose virtues, he knew, could be bought for the change in his pocket just as easily as he might buy a loaf of bread. She sat at her desk. He stood.

"I am seeking a man," he said, and Madame Dutoit's brows rose.

"If that's what you want, sir, we have several," she replied.

Javert straightened his back. He pursed his lips as he felt his cheeks begin to colour. He said, "That was not my meaning, madam. I am an officer of the law."

"It takes all kinds, sir," Dutoit replied. "Who are we to judge, under this roof?"

He understood her view, though he pointedly ignored it. "I saw him here last night, madam. He is about so tall, older, powerfully built."

Dutoit considered this. "I know the one, sir," she said, at length. "An excellent choice, if I might say."

"He works here, then?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "It's not all pretty girls and boys as we have here, inspector. We cater to all kinds of tastes." She leaned forward on her elbows. "Some men want roughing up, sir, and some men want to do the roughing. Our Fauchelevent, well, he's good for both. And other things besides." She paused. She smiled. "Shall I send him to you, sir? We've a room available. Free of charge, of course."

His instinct should have been to tell her no, and so perhaps it would have been had his business there seen links to any other convict. It was, however, Jean Valjean. He was working in a brothel of all places. He was there.

"Show me to this room, madam," Javert said. He felt his cheeks flush hot. "Then show him to me. Do not tell him who awaits within."

She nodded. She stood. She swept from the room with a glance over her shoulder and Javert followed close behind, his eyes boring holes in her back to keep his gaze from wandering to the colourful debaucheries that pressed at him from every side. She led him to the stair, then up it, one elegant hand sweeping the banister with each step she took. She led him down a corridor more lavish than the quarter should have warranted, past closed doors and open ones, the sounds from which he sought most vehemently to ignore. She led him to a vacant room and she stood aside to let him in. He closed the door behind him. 

His pulse thudded dully in his ears. He balled his hands up into fists. A prickle of sweat stood out at his brow. Before a knock could come, he turned and left; he told himself what he needed was more time. 

He returned the following evening. Madame Dutoit met him with a smile at the door and asked him, lowly, "What can we do for you today, inspector?"

"Fauchelevent," he told her, tersely. She nodded and she took him to the room. He left again, before anyone could join him. 

He returned the following evening, his mind made up. 

"Again, inspector?" asked Madame Dutoit. 

He nodded stiffly. His heart already pounded. The knock on the door finally came. 

"Enter," he called. His voice felt tight so he cleared his throat. He heard the doorknob turn, and he heard the door swing open, and he heard the door latch closed again. 

His back was turned. His hands gripped at the wooden back of a dining chair, and his back was ramrod-straight as he peered out from the window. There was a faint reflection in the glass, visible over his left shoulder, wavering in the low glow of the lamplight; he would, perhaps, should he then turn, find that Jean Valjean was waiting. He turned, once his intention was set; a man was indeed there, awaiting his instruction, in trousers and a shirt with long, loose sleeves, and a waistcoat that hung open over it, unbuttoned. His feet were bare against the wooden boards and his throat was bare, lacking a cravat. His face was turned down to the floor. It could well have been him, Javert thought. But he knew he must make sure of it.

As they stood there, Valjean did not speak; neither did Javert. As they stood there, Valjean did not look at him; Javert could not look away. He wiped his palms against his waistcoat. He tucked his hands behind his back. 

"Leave me," he said, to break the awkward silence, though they were not the words he'd meant to speak. 

Valjean nodded. He turned. He left. And Javert could only curse himself as he left that place, too. 

He returned the following evening. He went up to the room and waited. Valjean came, as he'd been sure he would. 

"Madame Dutoit says you sent for me, sir," said Valjean, without lifting his head, without looking at him. "I'm to do whatever you want me to." 

Javert frowned. "Anything?" he asked. 

"Anything at all." He shifted on the spot. He laced his fingers at the level of his waist, by his untucked shirt. "She says you are her special guest, and I am to please you." 

"I most certainly am not her guest," Javert snapped. He slapped one hand down against the nearby dresser, sharply, but Valjean did not flinch. 

Javert left, maintaining his carefully constructed outrage as he strode past him. But he knew he would return again. 

In the room the following evening, Javert waited, seated on that high-backed dining chair that sat by the window. Valjean entered. Javert said, as if a test, "Take off your clothes." 

Valjean, of course, complied. He removed his waistcoat, unbuttoned as it was, and set it on the dresser. He removed his shirt with one long pull over his head and set it by his waistcoat. Trousers followed, baring long legs, and beneath he was quite naked. Greying hair stood out over his broad chest and led down across his abdomen, between his thighs. Javert did not allow his eyes to follow to his manhood. He levelled them at his well-shaved face instead. 

"Kneel," he said, so Valjean did, but not before he stepped up closer. Javert was caught off guard when Valjean approached and knelt there at his feet, quite close, though he supposed he understood it; Valjean perhaps believed that what he wished for was a form of gratification, though it was not. He looked down at him, considering the life that Jean Valjean had chosen for himself, the series of decisions which had led him to this place. He could not feel pity. What he felt then was, to his shock and to his shame, quite something else entirely. 

Valjean raised his hands from his own bare thighs to Javert's neat and polished boots. Valjean's palms strayed back to the leather over Javert's calves. He could almost feel the warmth of his skin, so Javert thought; he could feel the pressure of his touch, appalling and alluring. When Valjean leaned in, when his lips pressed to the leather, Javert stood up abruptly. 

He very nearly fled that place as much as left it. But, despite his outrage and his best intentions, he knew he would return again. 

The following evening, when he entered the room, Valjean was already there. He was already naked, all his clothing neatly folded on the dresser. He sat on the blanket box full of who knew what that sat at the foot of the bed. 

Javert took off his gloves and tucked them into one empty pocket. He had no wish to touch him but he ran one bare hand over Valjean's thick though greying hair despite that. He twisted his bare fingers into it. He knew that he should not, but his fingers tightened further. He knew that he should not, but he rubbed one thumb over Valjean's parted lips. He felt his manhood throb to life with sickening immediacy. He felt a shameful blush creep up his neck, into his cheeks. 

He did not want this. The only explanation he could summon was that Jean Valjean was, for this as for so many other things, responsible; the notion eased his conscience very slightly, but did not serve to dampen his unsettling desire. 

He pushed down his trousers. He pulled up his shirt. Valjean licked his lips, and the heat of Valjean's breath against his skin was more than sufficient to make him stiffen further. Javert stood before him, his manhood thick and flushed and hard. He had never had much use for urges such as this one, dedicated as his life was to the maintenance of law, and he had at times felt quite another kind of shame directed at what was, he understood from both reactions and from evidence, his rather excessive size. This moment, however, as Valjean wrapped one large hand around him, as he licked at the tip with the tip of his tongue, as he sealed his lips around the head and sucked, he was filled instead with another emotion. 

He gritted his teeth. He clenched his jaw. When he came, not so very long after it had first begun, with one hand still in Valjean's hair, he could not suppress a groan. When he came, Valjean swallowed deeply, and then Javert staggered back three paces, breathless and disgusted. With one bare hand he slapped Valjean's face with an almighty crack of skin to skin, and then he turned his back abruptly. Quickly, he righted his clothes. And, once he had left that place again, once he was home in bed, he could not empty from his mind the image of Valjean's manhood hard and thick and red between his thighs, jutting up, aroused. He touched himself and swore under his breath that he would stop this.

The next evening, Valjean was waiting in the room. He was naked. He was sitting there at the foot of the bed. 

Javert had promised himself he would not deviate from what he'd planned; he planned to have Valjean put on his clothes and then he would take him in, under arrest. Javert had promised himself this, and yet it did not happen. 

He was angry. This was Valjean's fault, he thought, not anything from within him. He had been weak to a heady seduction, for which he reproved himself, and for which he would atone. He slapped Valjean across the face, as he had the night before, but Valjean neither flinched nor faltered from it. He slapped him again, harder, so Valjean's face was reddened with it, so his own hand felt the resulting sting deep in his flesh. It was not enough. His fingers twisted into Valjean's hair and he used his grip to pull him forward, to pull him down from the end of the bed; he pushed him down onto the floor and sent him sprawling, face first and exposed. 

As Valjean pushed up to his hands and knees, Javert followed him. He pulled the flintlock pistol from his belt and ensured that it was quite unloaded, at that point unsure of his own intentions. He reached down the jar of oil from the dresser, considering idly the breadth and extent of the house's supplies and the purposes for which they were used. He dipped the bulbous, metal-covered stock of his unloaded pistol into the oil then let that oil drip-drip at the crack of Valjean's arse as his own stomach clenched. He ran the oiled stock between Valjean's slick cheeks. He pushed it up against him, slowly but deliberately. At length, he felt it pop inside. 

He fucked him with the curve of his pistol's wooden grip, right up to the trigger guard, grasping it tightly by the barrel. He fucked him with it slow and hard, till Valjean's breath came quicker and his own hands trembled. It was meant to be a punishment, but Valjean's cock filled up erect. It was meant to be a punishment, but Valjean pushed back with each thrust and took it deep. Javert, for his part, found himself dismayed but fascinated; he ran oil-slicked fingers at the rim of Valjean's tight-stretched hole and felt his own cock strain against his clothes. He wished to pull out the gun and replace it there himself. 

He pushed up to his feet instead, with a rush of blood to his head that made him gasp and stumble. He left Valjean there, on his knees, with his pistol still inside him. The last thing he saw, as he turned to close the door behind him, was Valjean's hand around the pistol's barrel. Wide-eyed, he watched him ease it out then kneel there breathing hard against the floor. In bed that night, that was what he thought of as he touched himself. 

It should have been so simple to arrest him or to stay away, but the fact is that Javert did neither thing. He arrived again the next night to find Valjean already waiting and his pistol sitting on the dresser, cleaned and ready for him to use again should he so please, but the fact is that he didn't. Instead, he bent Valjean over the dresser and leaned past him to dip his fingers in the oil. He rubbed them down between Valjean's cheeks, rubbed them hard against his hole, then pushed inside straight to the knuckle. Valjean groaned out loud and Javert's manhood could not help but thicken at the sound of it. Then he reached down past Valjean's hip, reached around him, reached between his thighs, and wrapped his free hand tight around his cock and balls. 

He squeezed and Valjean groaned again, the sound low and raw against the wooden dresser. He fucked him with his fingers, quickly, till his shoulder ached, and all the while he squeezed Valjean until it must have hurt. He did not complain about the situation. He did not try to dissuade him or to push him away. And Javert rubbed himself against the heel of his hand, thrusting against it as he assaulted Valjean's hole. Once he had brought himself to his release inside his clothes, he pulled away; when he left, Valjean was still panting. He took the pistol with him, and later used the butt of it to fuck himself, shame-faced and and stilted. 

In the daytime, Javert was not idle. His work provided ample distraction from his nighttime indiscretions, from his nighttime investigations, though he did look into Monsieur Fauchelevent. He discovered the convent, and discovered his ward. He discovered his saviour, a man whose name was truly Fauchelevent, who had given him shelter. Valjean had money, by all accounts. His needless prostitution made no sense to Javert at all, except as a kind of penance for his past misdeeds. The thought of that unsettled him, because it surely could not be. 

He returned the following evening. Valjean was waiting, naked, stretched out prone there on the bed with one knee hitched up to one side, like something from an obscene work of art. Javert trailed his fingers down the length of Valjean's spine, from the highest vertebra to coccyx where he rubbed slowly with one thumb. Valjean's hips shifted very slightly down against the mattress. Javert joined him on the bed, still clothed. 

He knew that what he did was wrong. He knew that was he did was utterly repulsive. He knew he should arrest Valjean and have it done with, end it, make it stop, but instead he freed his cock and oiled its length in short, sharp strokes. He pressed the tip between Valjean's cheeks as Valjean bore up on knees and forearms. He rubbed himself against his hole. As he entered him, slowly, slipping, halting, he found he hated himself almost as much as he hated Jean Valjean. As he fucked him and then he came in him, he found he hated himself more. 

Four months have now passed since he first set foot inside that house, and Javert has not missed a single night. He has had him on his knees on the bed and forced down over the dresser. He has had him standing, each thrust of his hips chafing Valjean's forearms as he is pushed face first against the brightly painted wall. He has forced his cock into Valjean's throat so deep he almost choked on it. He has tied his own cravat about Valjean's cock and balls to keep him from release. He has done all of this and more, and more besides. Valjean has never looked at him throughout, not once. 

Four months have passed, and until three days ago Javert had not missed a single night. Three nights ago, he stopped at Madame Dutoit's office once he had stepped in through the door, past dark. He asked her, though he could not say why he did so: "Your man Fauchelevent, madame, has he served here long?"

She smiled just very faintly, almost wryly, as she shook her head. "No," she told him. "Not very long at all." 

"He is...popular?" he asked. "Your clientele, they ask for him by name?"

"They do not know his name, inspector," she replied. "And if they did, they would not ask." 

His throat felt tight. His nails bit at his palms. 

"You told me once you cater to all tastes," he said. "You said _some men like to be roughed up_. Is that not so?"

"Quite so, sir. And I did not lie." 

"Then I expect you will explain yourself." 

"Though he does not take pay from me, Monsieur Fauchelevent does work here," Dutoit said. "He owns this house, and he would have given us money to enable us to stop for a short time, but we have the means to make our living here. He decided instead to ensures my girls' and boys' security and welfare, and I gladly accepted his assistance." She paused. She sighed. She shrugged. "Some men like roughing up, inspector, at the end of the night when they have had too much to drink. Some men like to do the roughing up, or at least it is the case that they might try to. He keeps that in check."

"Then he does not..."

"I was concerned when you came looking for him, and I told him so. He said he would leave so you might leave us be, and I told him no, you would only shut us down, then where would we be?" She leaned in. "He asked what he might do to help. I told him." Javert winced. "You are his only customer, monsieur. He prostitutes himself to you for us."

Javert left at that. His body felt flooded and hot and heavy and the cool winter air outside did not help. He walked for an hour in the thin light of the moon at the side of the Seine, and he thought of the things that Dutoit had said. He fit piece into piece with a low, roiling revulsion and returned to his rooms while the sky was still dark. Dutoit had seen in him this thing he had not known he'd wanted, and Valjean had agreed to it. He had no need of the money. He had serviced him to keep the workers safe from Inspector Javert. 

That night he did not sleep, except in a few brief, fitful moments. In the day that followed he did not eat, except in a few brief and ashen bites. Dusk came, night came, and he did not let his traitorous feet take him to that door again. He had been wrong. He had been so very wrong, and he understood with awful clarity that he must make amends. 

Javert has told himself more than once that what this is is an investigation. He has told himself that he has done only what he must so he is sure, before the appropriate arrest is made. As he stands here in this room tonight, he knows those have been lies he tells to alleviate his guilt, for what he wants, and for what he has done. 

Valjean is naked on his knees as Javert stands here in the lamplight. Valjean's gaze is, as always, averted from him. Javert swallows. He bites his lip against his own disgusting cowardice and tilts up Valjean’s chin with the first pair of his fingers. Valjean resists. Javert insists.

"Valjean," he says, his tone blade-sharp. And, for once, for the very first time, Valjean lifts his head and lifts his eyes to meet his gaze. 

"Javert," he replies, after a near infinite moment. He holds out his wrists to him, together, palms both facing skyward. "Is it time?" he asks, almost like he understands. He thinks he does. He couldn't.

Javert shakes his head. "No," he says, with his voice thin and cracked. "I think I have to let you go." 

Valjean takes a slow and steady breath. Valjean rises up, but not in triumph. He is tall and broad, he is ageing and worn but thick and strong, he could kill Javert here in this room where they stand and then it would at last be over, but instead he brings his calloused hands to Javert's face. He rests his forehead against his, heavily, as if greatly tired.

"Thank you," he says, as his eyes close, as the pads of his thumbs brush Javert's cheekbones almost reverently. "Thank you, from the bottom of my heart." But Javert only feels the turmoil there inside himself increase. 

Then Valjean's mouth meets his, if clumsily, and all inside Javert goes blank. 

When Valjean's fingers fumble at his clothes, Javert does not have it in him to wonder if it's punishment or perhaps revenge; he feels Valjean's bare palms against his own bared chest, once coat and waistcoat, neckcloth and shirt are gone, and his mind is blank as his body reacts. Javert cannot question motives as Valjean's teeth scrape at the crook of his neck, or as he kneels at his feet to remove his boots, or as he steps behind him to push down trousers over hips. Valjean rests his forehead down against Javert's shoulder from behind. He rests his palms there at his hips and he can feel the length of his cock pressed against him. He feels Valjean's hesitance. He turns and meets his gaze. 

"I said I would let you go," he says. "Why are you still here? Moreover, why am I?"

"Because you do what you feel is right," Valjean replies. "As do I. And I would wish you stay." 

He stays, though circumstances make no sense to him; he understands only that Jean Valjean is not quite what he's seemed to be, and so he stays, and lets himself be overwhelmed. He allows Valjean to guide him down onto the bed. He allows Valjean to lay him down, and lets his weight above him anchor him down against the mattress. The face of Jean Valjean is at this time as familiar to him as is his own, despite this unfamiliar context. Javert lifts his knees to frame Valjean’s slim hips. Javert lifts his hands to frame Valjean’s flushed cheeks. When they kiss, Valjean’s inexperience shows. Javert understands his own experience is not much greater. This is a commonality between them.

Valjean kneels between his thighs. Valjean hitches one of Javert’s calves up to his own shoulder. His slick fingers rubbing there between his cheeks make Javert tense just for a moment, until he understands exactly what this is: it is neither punishment nor penance; it is not a manner of indignity to be endured; it is not what he deserves any more than it was what Valjean deserved. Valjean penetrates him slowly, bluntly, inch by inch, his breath a series of staccato hitches, and Javert holds onto his shoulders as if for his very life. 

His muscles strain. One hand finds the wooden lats that line the headboard and he pulls against them as Valjean rocks his hips. Valjean is no expert. The way in which his hips thrust is shallow and haphazard and his rhythm is uneven, but Javert finds he cares about that not at all. His free hand goes down to stroke himself, his knuckles grazing the taut stretch of Valjean’s abdomen. Valjean bares his teeth with the sensation of it, and the effort. His skin has a sheen of lamplit sweat and Javert feels flushed and warm and light of head as Valjean’s manhood stretches him out wide. He should be appalled, but he is not. 

When Javert comes in fitful bursts, he says Valjean’s name, again and again, in breathless litany. It is as if they share a common secret, which includes the secret of his name but does not end there as, Javert now understands, names are not the be-all end-all of identity. Valjean’s hips jerk. The muscles in his shoulders and his neck stand out and he groans, and he strains, and he pulses his release inside him. Javert finds he does not mind it as he thought he might. 

Valjean pulls back. He pulls out and he sits back, his knees spread wide, on his heels between Javert’s thighs. When the edges of his mouth curve up just a fraction, Javert no longer cares that he feels utterly exposed. However, neither man has the luxury of remaining long. 

They leave the bed. They dress. And as Javert’s hand reaches for the doorknob, Valjean’s hand reaches for his shoulder. 

“Will you return tomorrow?” Valjean asks, and Javert turns. 

He has told himself that what this is is an investigation. He understands now that it never was. He has lied to himself in the most brazen way.

“Yes,” he says. He believes he will. 

His place has always been two steps away from Jean Valjean, before, and it has brought to him no satisfaction. 

Valjean’s mouth finds his, his back pressed to the door. His own hands find Valjean's back and press there fervently.

Perhaps he will be better walking by his side than following.


End file.
